"Paper and pencil," he said, pointing to the writing-table. I handed him a pencil and a writing-block. By a gesture he intimated that he wanted me to watch him. Quarles was no draughtsman. He had told me so--quite unnecessarily, because I had often seen him make a rough sketch to illustrate some argument, and he always had to explain what the various parts of the drawing stood for. Yet, as I watched him now, he began to draw with firm, determined fingers--a definite line here, another there, sometimes pausing for a moment as if to remember the relative position of a line or the exact curve in it. For a time there seemed no connection between the lines, no meaning in the design. I have seen trick artists at a music-hall draw in this way, beginning with what appeared to be the least essential parts, and then, with two or three touches, causing all the rest to fall into proper perspective and a complete picture. So it was with Quarles. Two or three quick lines, and the puzzle became a man's head and shoulders. No one could doubt that it was a portrait with certain characteristics exaggerated, not into caricature, but enough to make it impossible not to recognize the original from the picture. It was an attractive face, but set and rather tragic in expression. Quarles did not speak. He surveyed his work for a few moments, slightly corrected the curve of the nostril, and then very swiftly drew a rope round the neck, continuing it in an uncertain line almost to the top of the paper. The sudden stoppage of the pencil give a jagged end to the line. The rope looked as if it had been broken. The effect was startling. "Three times he has visited me," said Quarles. "First, just as the dusk was falling he stood in the window there, little more than a dark shadow against the light outside. The second time was when the lamp was lighted. I looked up suddenly, and he was standing there by the fireplace gazing at me intently. He was flesh and blood, real, not a ghost, no shape of mist trailing into my vision. An hour ago, at least it seems only an hour ago, he came again. The door opened, and he entered. He stood there just in front of me, as clearly visible in the daylight as you are, and as real. When you opened the door, I thought my visitor had come a fourth time." "And what is the meaning of this--this broken rope?" I said, pointing to the drawing. "Broken?" and he looked at the paper closely. "My hand stopped involuntarily. It is a good sign--encouraging--but the rope is not really broken yet. That is for us to accomplish." "What do you mean?" "I mean that in one of His Majesty's prisons this man lies under sentence of death, that he is innocent of the crime, that he has been permitted to come to me for help." "But----?" Quarles sprang from his chair.